


HSO Bonus Round 1 Fills

by grimd0rk



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Homestuck Shipping Olympics, Multi, basically a collection of oneshots, ficdump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-19
Updated: 2012-07-19
Packaged: 2017-11-10 07:13:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,472
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/463617
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grimd0rk/pseuds/grimd0rk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Basically this is just so I have a record of the fills I did for the HSO Bonus Round 1, which was a genremash challenge.</p><p>What is where:</p><p>1. Mom<3Dad; Prompt: Americana + Adventure<br/>2. Dirk<3Jake; Prompt: Pirates + Slice of Life<br/>3. Eridan<3Sollux; Prompt: Medieval Fantasy + Road Trip<br/>4. Dirk<3 < uu; Prompt: Barista AU + Marquis de Sade Parody<br/>5. Roxy < > Dirk; Prompt: Revolution + Putting On The Ritz</p><p>Of course, all credit goes to the original prompters for the ideas!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Fugitives (Mom<3Dad)

There is nothing worse than the smell of burning petrol on a hot day. Your eyes water as you step out of the car to inspect the damage. You allow yourself to loosen your tie – after all, there is no-one here to judge you on the trim of your lawn or the cut of your jib.

Freedom at last.

The bonnet springs open and scatters dust everywhere. You’re not exactly enthused by the smoking mess of metal before your eyes. You were never very good with cars, but you told her “I’ll handle it”, because even though you know she doesn’t care what you do, you still want to put on a good front. Swiping some of the steam away from your face, you lean forward. Hesitantly, you wrest the pen from your breast pocket and prod one of the metal contortions with it. It creaks slightly, but otherwise it doesn’t seem to have done anything. Surprise, surprise.

There’s a hand on your shoulder as she pulls you away from the bonnet and plunges headfirst into the steam. You didn’t even hear her leave the car.

“Alright, let’s take a look at this fucker,” she says, bending over. You refrain from admiring her posterior or letting her obscenity rustle your jimmies – no, you’re above that. You stand back at a safe distance and let her tinker.

“Well, I’m out.” She pulls away from the bonnet and, wiping the sweat off her face, walks away from the car.

“Wait, wait, what’s the problem with it?” you ask, turning after her.

“It’s fucked. We’re fucked.”

“Well hold on just a minute, there’s got to be a gas station around here somewhere!” you yell after her. She’s already put a few good yards between herself and the car.

“And where d’you think I’m going, hey?”

Point taken. You take brisks strides to catch up with her, taking off your tie completely and balling it up in your trouser pocket.

By the time of you reach a gas station, not a word exchanged on the whole half-hour walk, and you’re thanking your lucky stars that you didn’t leave your fedora in the car – otherwise you might as well have burnt to a crisp. Your shirt is unbuttoned and you’re wetter than a theme park waterslide. Your heart beats in double time as a fragment of a memory flies into your mind – but now is not the time to think about the theme park where you were going to take your son John next week. John’s safe at home with his Nanna, and you know he’ll be alright.

He doesn’t need to be caught up in all of this.

You turn your attention back to reality just in time to realise that you’ve walked through a jangling door behind her and into a mechanic’s workshop at the gas station. You’re not in the deep desert anymore, there are brands on these shelves that you’ve heard of (which is more than you can say for what you saw at your last brief stop) and an air conditioner that appears to be in full working order. Not far from civilisation now. You button up your shirt.

Your head is swimming – you don’t know how she puts up with the heat so well, but she’s holding a perfectly cogent conversation with the mechanic and leading him out, pointing him down the highway to where your car broke down. He nods and says he’ll take a look at it, and she tips him a greenback.

“There’s a diner ‘round the side,” she says, nudging you to a higher plane of consciousness. “We might as well get a tipple.”

You nod vacantly. If nothing else, some food will help bring you back to life.

The diner reeks of deep-fried grease and you can tell, the moment you enter, that it’s not exactly going to give you the best meal of your life, but you’re beyond caring. The two of you sit down at a table near the back exit (for a quick escape, if need be) and a waitress wearing an apron so lumpy it looks like she might be hiding several kittens under it comes ‘round with two menus.

“Just a drink for me,” your partner in crime says, “y’do any cocktails?”

“Honey, we don’t serve no alcohol before six pm here,” the waitress says with a snort.

The lovely lady sitting across from you looks awfully dejected; it doesn’t suit her features. “Fine,” she grumbles, drumming her fingers on the table, “I’ll get a lime milkshake.”

The waitress nods. “And for you, mister?”

“I’ll get a coke and, uh... do you do nachos?”

“We sure as heck do,” she says, scribbling down your order. “Want me to put some phosphorous in your coke, make it taste like in the olden times?”

You wrinkle your nose slightly – the fumes from your car will suffice for your daily noxious gas quota. “No thanks.”

Once the waitress is gone, she reaches across the table and strokes your face. “Nachos, Egbert? Really?”

You shrug. “I need to have something to fill the void in my stomach right now.”

She smirks. “You know I’m always here to fill any voids you have, baby.”

You smile.

You hear the distant sound of tyres coming to a quick stop on some tarmac, and glance out the wind— oh lord.

She’s seen it too, and she quickly snatches her hand away. “It’s the fuzz!” she hisses, and you think it’s adorable that she feels the need to talk like she’s in a bad cop movie. You would have taken longer to dwell on that pleasant thought, but she’s already grabbed up her bag and she’s heading for the exit. You quickly jump up and follow her, not bothering to look back at the waitress’s doubtless-judgemental expression.

The two of you beat a hasty escape just in time to see the mechanic pulling up with your car. “Out of water!” he shouts, slightly amused.

“Never mind what was wrong with it,” you snap, “just give me the keys!”

He cottons on pretty quick. “The cops here for you?”

“What do you think, wise guy?” you say.

She hands him a wad of notes pulled indiscriminately from her bag. “You keep quiet, alright? You never saw us.”

He nods calmly, like this is something with which he must deal on a day-to-day basis. But of course, that would be absurd.

You don’t bother to thank him, and you climb in the car and hotfoot it the hell out of there. It’s a few minutes of catching your breath later that you realise there’s a siren wailing behind you.

For the first time since you met her, she looks scared. Not even last night, when the two of you... well, the less said about the events that led to this, the better. It’s you and her, running from demons of an indescribably horrific nature.

John is safe at home, you remind yourself. You turn to her.

“It’s going to be alright.”

But you don’t believe your own words. Eyes back on the road.

“Don’t you worry, I’ve got your back, Mister Egbert.”

“And I yours, Missus Egbert.”

“Watch yourself!” she says cheerfully, and for a moment you can bring yourself to believe that yes, it will be alright. “That’s Miss Lalonde to you! We’re not married. Yet.”

You grin, despite everything, and stick your right hand out. Her left meets it almost immediately. Nothing more needs to be said.

You press down on the accelerator.  
  



	2. It'll Be An Adventure! (Dirk<3Jake)

Dirk can’t say no to that face. Dirk Strider, the one they call Broadsword, the name carried across the waves as the most fearful pirate this side of the Pacific, is constantly floored by the look on his first mate’s face.

“Jake, _really_?”

He’s put down his flagon of ale in disgust, staring across the table at Jake. Jake looks so earnest too, gripping his little scrap of paper. Pathetic.

“Jake,” Dirk says again, harsher this time, “you know that’s not a _real_ map, don’t you?”

“Come on, old chap!” Jake says, laying out the map on the table for the fifth time. “Just take a gander at it! Surely you can see the worth in this?”

Dirk stares blankly at it. It is, quite literally, some scribbling on a worn out bit of parchment. “Jake. You can’t be serious.”

“Dead serious!”

My god, he _is._

Dirk decides then and there that he’s not going to let himself fall victim to Jake’s good looks and easy charm, not this time.

“Look, Jake, we can’t afford to make a detour. You _know_ we have to get the cargo to Crocker before sundown on Friday.”

Jake’s face falls, and it’s like a stab to the heart. Dirk allows the knife to twist within him – he deserves it for being such a bastard to Jake. But this time it’s business first. He stands up and grabs the map before Jake can protest. As he storms off to the sleeping quarters, Jake calls out after him.

“Dirk! It’ll be an adventure!”

Dirk ignores him and shuts the door to his cabin with a clash that echoes back down into the galley where Jake is still sitting, probably mourning the loss of his map.

He regrets it the moment the door is closed. He’s acting like the worst sort of adolescent – the kind his brother told him never to become. Dirk had kept up that visage of composure his whole life, and Jake was the only person who had ever managed to peel it back and make Dirk feel like an immature, spoiled brat. Lord Jake English, the unlikely recruit from the upper echelons of society with nerves of steel and a spirit of adventure like no other.

Dirk flops down on his bunk and throws the map down to the side. It floats benignly to the floor, swaying in time with the gentle bobbing of the boat. He’s getting a headache. He just wants to pretend that nothing is happening. That he has no duties and that the boat will steer itself.

There’s a knock on his door, which comes as something of a surprise. He didn’t expect Jake to be there so soon.

“Dirk Strider,” he says, “come out and talk to me this instant!”

“Fuck off and polish your sword,” Dirk snaps.

Jake bangs on the door. “Jesus christ on a sinking frigate, you are _incorrigible_! I just want to talk!”

“There's nothing to fucking talk _about_! I’m sick of you and your endless quest for excitement, Jake.”

“Oh you did _not_ just say that!” Jake yelled. “I’ve had it with your nonsense, Strider! All I have _ever_ done is make suggestions, most of which have turned out to be good ones. You owe me a lot!”

Dirk jumps up from his bunk and flings open the door, standing face to face with Jake, looking angrier than he’d ever seen him. “Not. Everything. Has. To. Be. An. _ADVENTURE!_ ”

Jake shoves him forward into his cabin and shuts the door behind them. He kisses Dirk.

Hard.

Dirk stumbles backwards and allows Jake to push him onto the bed. He was _not_ expecting that.

Although perhaps after a five-year relationship, he should have been.

“You are without a single doubt, Strider, the worst captain I have ever had the misfortune to serve under.”

“And the only,” Dirk corrects him, running a hand through his lover’s hair and kissing him lightly.

“So how about we pick that map up off the floor and take a bit of a different route than we had planned?”

And, god damn it, it’s that face again, and Dirk can’t say no.

The most fearsome pirate captain in the land, conquered once again.


	3. It Is Midday (Eridan<3Sollux)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is really silly (I wrote it at like 1am) and I apologise in advance

It is five in the morning, which, by royal decree, should be deemed “No Reasonable Hour For A Prince To Even _Consider_ Being Awake”. Prince Ampora of the Kingdom of Derse is one such Prince who would sooner sit in a carriage that’s fallen off-road into a ditch and make sweet love to the Court Mage than even _consider_ being awake at five in the morning.

However, it is in fact five in the morning, and sooner or later Prince Ampora will realise that he is not in fact in a ditch making sweet love to the Court Mage, but lying in his four-poster five-mattress bed being shaken awake by his manservant, who is by this point rather infuriated by his master’s inability to rouse himself from this seemingly-enchanted slumber.

Stopping short of saying “Kindly get the fuck up, Master Ampora”, the faceless manservant resorts to muffling his mouth with a cloth to disguise his voice and shouting “FIRE IN THE WALK-IN WARDROBE!” That got the Prince sitting bolt upright.

“WHAT,” he yelps, usually-impeccable hair in disarray.

“Ah good, Sir, you’re awake.” The manservant smiles serenely. “You are aware you’ll have to extricate yourself from bed for your trip to Prospit today?”

“How could I forget,” the Prince deadpans, throwing off his sheets so that they land atop the manservant’s head.

\---

It is six in the morning, and the Right Honourable Prince Eridan Ampora of the Kingdom of Derse, PhD, is not at all happy to be awake. After a suitably royal breakfast and a thorough debriefing from his father the King, he is standing in the cold outside the extravagant royal palace waiting for the Knight from Prospit who will be escorting himself and the Court Mage to Prospit, where he is to be betrothed to the Princess or something.

The details are all a bit hazy.

But to make this whole excursion worthwhile, naturally the Prince’s self-proclaimed Arch Rival In Everything But Especially The Act Of Living Itself is to be his other escort, along with the Prospitian Knight. This is Sollux Captor, the Court Mage, who is roughly the same age as the Prince and was once deemed to be a suitable childhood companion to his royal self.

What a joke that had turned out to be.

After the two boys did nothing but fight, Eridan’s supernanny had revoked young Captor’s Princely Companion License, and he had been replaced by the heir to the Zahhak fortune, a young boy named Equius with an unhealthy fondness (possibly fuelled by nominative predetermination) for our equine companions. In that sense, Eridan was glad that it was Captor rather than Zahhak joining him on the journey. At least Captor wouldn’t spend the entire trip salivating over the winged hoofbeasts that were to be guiding the carriage.

At last the carriage pulls up with a surly-looking Knight at the reins, and Captor emerges from the shadows in a rather mage-like ominous manner.

Eridan wants to slap him.

\---

It is seven in the morning, and of _course_ Captor and the Knight Karkat Vantas are getting on like a small village full of innocents on fire. Of _course_.

Prince Eridan is sitting with his arms crossed, staring out the window at the blur of the countryside as the carriage speeds past small villages full of innocents that he is rather inclined to want to burn to the ground at this very moment. Curse the restrictive legal system.

The insufferable Mage slips back into the carriage from his position up front with Vantas and sticks his legs up on the seat, leaning back like he has _not a care in the world_ , the conceited arse. “How’re you coping back here, Prince?” he asks cheerfully, and _fuck_ , he still has that dumb lisp that he’s always had.

It would not be so annoying if Prince Eridan did not find it so incredibly sexy.

“I’m coping fantastically, thank you,” Eridan snaps back, straightening up and uncrossing his arms.

“Looking forward to meeting Marquise Serket?”

Oh, yes, _that_ was the name of the broad he’s meant to be marrying. “ _She_ should be looking forward to meeting _me_ ,” he said gruffly, straightening his spectacles.

“Right,” Captor says.

“Do I detect a hint of cynicism in your voice, peasant?”

“None at all, Your Highness.”

\---

It is eight in the morning and Knight Vantas has insisted that they make a stopover in a small town populated almost entirely by salamanders, because the horses are tired. It is only when he steps gracefully down from the carriage that Eridan realises just how short the Knight is. He comes up no higher than Eridan’s shoulder.

He also swears like a common troubadour.

“Is there no fucking way we can get some fucking food in this shitheap of a town? Is it that much of a stagnant hole in the dirt? Fuck, we’re in fucking bilgewater scum county. It reeks of horseshit. Fuck. I can’t stay here much longer.”

“It was your idea to take a break,” Captor points out.

“I know it was my idea, but past me is a fucking idiot,” Vantas screeches, _this_ close to tearing out his hair.

“Both of you need to calm yourselves,” Eridan interjected. “I realise that neither of you are of the same noble temperament as I, but if we are to retain our good spirits—”

“Kindly _shut the fuck up_ , Your Highness,” Captor interjects. “I don’t need _two_ noble pricks in foul moods to lighten my spirits.”

Eridan has never been more aroused in his life.

\---

It is nine in the morning and the lone carriage in the Borderlands is making good time. If they’re lucky, they’ll make Prospit’s capital by ten and Eridan can get the dumb meeting with the dumb girl he’s meant to be marrying over and done with and then everyone can go home and shut the fuck up.

Naturally Vantas is still whining to Captor. Eridan tries to block out the noise by drumming his feet on the floor of the carriage, but all it’s doing is making him dizzy.

Vantas is on the verge of his five millionth “and another thing...” when there is a great shudder as the carriage hits an obstacle in the road. In the space of a few seconds Vantas loses control of the horses and they break apart from the carriage, rushing off of their own accord. The carriage upends and spins sideways into a ditch by the side of the road.

Fucking _brilliant_ , Eridan thinks to himself as he is squashed against the wall of the carriage in a position that not even the greatest court contortionists could ever manage. He can hear Captor and Vantas arguing outside.

“Christ, Vantas, just let me come with you to find the horses! His Royal Dickprince can take care of himself!”

“What part of _the King will have you flogged for leaving him and the carriage unguarded_ do you not understand, fuckmunch? Fuck, he’ll have _me_ flogged too! Just do me a fucking favour; stay here and look after that shit-for-brains, else he’ll accidentally get himself killed left all on his lonesome.”

A few more harsh words are exchanged before Eridan hears the sound of Vantas’s heavy boots moving off into the distance, and the door at the other side of the carriage, directly above him, opens up. In something of a role reversal, Captor looks down on him scornfully.

“Looks like I’m stuck with you, Your Highness.”

\---

It is ten in the morning and “I Spy” is starting to get boring. Eridan has refused to attempt to leave the carriage, preferring to wait until Vantas returns with the winged horses to lift them out of the ditch. Captor is starting to worry – he’s almost been gone an hour.

“I spy with my royal eye, something beginning wiiiiiith... C.”

“I swear in the name of all that is holy, Erida— Prince Ampora, if this is ‘carriage’ again I will personally see to your removal from the face of this planet.”

“Yeah well, you’re the Court Mage, why couldn’t you just remove this carriage from the face of this ditch?”

“If I have to tell you aga— my powers don’t _work_ like that! Your fucking Highness!”

Eridan pouted, flicking the floor of the carriage, which was now oriented more like a wall. “I’m bored. Can you use your powers to tell me when Vantas will return?”

“Fucking _no_ , stop fucking asking!”

Eridan is suddenly acutely aware of how cramped this sideways carriage is, and how attractive Captor is when he’s angry.

“Well then, I don’t suppose you can think of any other way to pass the time than ‘I Spy’?” he asks.

They spend a few minutes just staring at each other in silence before they can mutually agree on a _much_ more productive way of waiting.

\---

It is eleven in the morning and after Karkat Vantas has unsuccessfully tried to tear out his own eyes for the unspeakable horrors witnessed in the carriage, they are finally on the move and headed for Prospit once more.

The tension in the carriage is such that you could cut it with a knife. Sollux Captor and Prince Eridan Ampora are sitting on absolute opposite ends of the compartment and looking absolutely everywhere but at one another.

Eridan is hoping that he’s suitably rearranged his hair for his meeting with Marquise Serket. Although, there’s a part of him that doesn’t want her to be interested in him. Not after... that. He doesn’t think he could ever be interested in another. His eyes have been opened. No longer will he be yelling at his heinously insubordinate Court Mage for a myriad misdemeanours.

Sollux is wondering what the hell just happened and why the hell he got so much enjoyment from it.

\---

It is midday and Prince Eridan Ampora is standing flanked by his Mage and Knight, facing Marquise Vriska Serket, who has a metal arm that looks like it could rip his bollocks off if she so desired.

“Well,” she says, surveying him, unsure whether or not she likes what she sees, “a match between us would certainly be advantageous to our two nations. As you _surely_ know, I’m a pretty major player in Prospitian politics.”

“I had no idea,” Eridan says vaguely.

“You flatter me,” she says, making it sound like a threat.

They are soon left alone to “get to know one another”. Eridan decides he rather likes her – she’s a bitch, that’s for sure, and he can appreciate that. After all, he’s been informed by numerous people on numerous occasions that he, too, is a bitch.

But he can’t marry her.

Not after... _that_.

As he contemplates his inevitable future, he decides he would much sooner sit in a carriage that’s fallen off-road into a ditch and make sweet love to the Court Mage than even _consider_ marrying this upstanding member of the Prospitian community. He makes a mental note to ask Vantas not to take them back to Derse that evening.


	4. Filthy (Dirk<3<uu)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is also pretty silly but I like it maybe you will too

You tell yourself that one day you’ll stop falling in love with handsome strangers who come into the café.

This one is there every morning at eight-thirty, without fail. He orders a triple espresso with a scowl and never so much as a second of eye contact with anyone. You would’ve said he was a kid from the estates, but under his hoodie is quite obviously a business suit. It’s a bit of a walk from the financial district, but you suppose he enjoys the fresh air in his tea break. He’s pretty short – you’re on a platform behind the machine, but if the two of you were on the same level he’d probably come no further than your mouth. And if you’re being honest with yourself, it’s pretty hot, even though he looks about fifteen. He can’t be. Fifteen-year-olds don’t wear suits. A couple of times you’ve seen his face, and he’s got such a striking profile.

You try not to overfill his cup while you’re eyeballing him.

Sometimes you wish he’d order something with milk, just so you’d have the excuse to get a bit fancy. Sure, it’s just a suburban café, but that doesn’t mean you haven’t spent the requisite hour after closing every day perfecting your latté art skills. Let it never be said you don’t put your mind to the task.

The day he looks at you is perhaps the greatest day of your working life so far. God, those _eyes_. Maybe this guy is a model and he wears the hood so that people don’t stare. That seems like a reasonable explanation. You’re a reasonable man. You’re definitely watching what you’re doi—

The coffee scalds your hands as you realise that maybe, just maybe, you should’ve been paying more attention. Your fingers are red and swelling, and you bite your lip to keep from screaming bloody murder. Jane behind the register gives you a look like you’ve just won Idiot of the Year. There goes Employee of the Month.

She signals for you to go out back and compose yourself, which is something you do quite thankfully. You’re annoyed at yourself, no doubt about it. Way to come off all unprofessional. But even more, you’re annoyed at _him_. How dare he be so attractive. How dare he distract you from your work. How dare he look at you.

Didn’t he know what he was doing?

You dry your hands, but they’re still red and raw. Close enough. You go back out front, and Jake’s taken over at the machine. He gives you an apologetic glance and then looks back to his work. Of course he does – he’s not dumb enough to get boiling hot coffee all over his hands, even if he is only a trainee barista.

“Your hands look awful, Dirk,” Jane says, putting on her Worried Mother Face as she gets a slice of cheesecake out of the fridge. “Why don’t you go home and get yourself cleaned up? You can come back to work later,” she says. It’s not a suggestion. It’s an order.

You nod, and exit out the back.

He’s standing there on the sidewalk, just loitering there with his triple espresso and an arrogant smirk just visible under the hood, as though nothing happened. You want to punch the git square in the kisser. You resolve to ignore him completely.

“Nice burns,” he says as you walk past. “What are those? First degree? Second degree?” You stop in your tracks and swivel around.

“What did you just say,” you say, your jaw clenched.

He grins at you, and it makes you feel decidedly uncomfortable.

You keep walking.

It’s a block later that you notice him following you.

Once again you turn around. “What do you want?”

He walks right up to you, and he’s actually a lot taller than he seemed from behind the counter. Good kissing height. Good punching height.

“I want you,” he whispers, leaning in close. “I see you every fucking week. And I want to do _unspeakable_ things to you. I want to see you _suffer_.”

You back away slightly, taking care not to lose your footing (that would just be _embarrassing_ ). “Jesus christ, I wasn’t aware that we had any registered sex offenders on the loose ‘round here.”

He just smiles again, and yeah, it’s fucking _terrifying_. But he is so criminally attractive when he smiles. You almost _want_ him to do unspeakable things to you.

“Do you want to come back to mine?” he asks. “We can have coffee. Or not.”

“Yes,” you say, before you can give yourself a chance to think about it. “Fuck yes.”

He nods and walks ahead, and you follow him. Why the _fuck_ are you following him?

It’s not a long walk to his apartment block, and he lives on the tenth floor. The sexual tension in the elevator is palpable. When he unlocks the door to let you in you’re wholly unsurprised by how sterile it is. One side of the living room, however, is covered with film posters. He sees you checking them out and scowls. “Ignore those. They’re my sister’s.”

You raise an eyebrow at him.

“She’s not here,” he adds, kicking off his shoes into the corner.

As you enter his bedroom you realise that your hands are still like two pentadactyl pokers. You shove them in your pockets and inspect the room. So far, so good – there are no obvious torture implements lying around, no bondage gear, no volumes of de Sade. In fact, like the un-decorated half of the living room, it’s sparsely adorned but for a table set up in the corner with a chess set out on it, seemingly mid-game.

“You don’t want a coffee, do you,” you say.

He grins and shakes his head. “I want to play a game.”

“Chess?”

His face falls and he grimaces at you like you’ve just told the worst joke in living memory. “Not chess. Idiot. We are going to do things that you wouldn’t _dream_ of doing in public. Take off your shoes. And lie down.”

He points to the bed. It’s a double bed, and you wonder vaguely if he’s being unfaithful here, but then you remember than he lives with his sister. Definitely a bachelor.

And so you lie down. He climbs on top, straddling you, and stares down with that handsome face of his. You reach up to push his hood away, but he swats your hand away like a kitten with a ball of wool. “Not so fast!” he says. “One thing at a time.”

This is getting very weird very fast. You’re honestly waiting for the ball gag to come out, so it surprises you when he takes the same hand and places it in front of your face.

“Hold my hand.”

You narrow your eyes at him. “Really, dude?”

“Just fucking hold it!”

So you oblige, and bring your burnt hand up to meet his. It’s unusually small – or maybe yours is still swollen. You twine your fingers together, and he looks utterly scandalised.

“Fuck. You are _filthy_! Dirk.”

He flicks your namebadge with his other hand. You’d forgotten you were still wearing it. “What now?” you ask.

“One thing at a time,” he says sharply.

“Well, yeah,” you mutter. “I don’t even to know your name.”

“That is of no importance!” he proclaims with all the pomp of a public service announcement. “You will obey my commands. And not ask questions.”

“Whatever.” You’re kind of getting sick of this going nowhere. You thought at least he wanted rough makeouts. But no. You’re just holding hands. This guy is worse than annoying – he’s a complete tool.

“You’re getting impatient. I can tell. Ok.”

He leans down, your hands still linked, so that his face is right in front of yours. “Tell me you love me,” he whispers.

“What?”

“Tell me. That. You love me.”

It occurs to you how stilted his speech is – either someone’s really into dramatic pauses, or English isn’t his first language. And you definitely do _not_ love him.

“Dude, no. I’m not a liar.”

“ _Say it_ ,” he hisses.

It is impossible to shrink any further back into the mattress thank you already have. You clear your throat. “I... love you...”

“Oh _man_ ,” he says, pursing his lips and taking a moment to luxuriate. “You even put in the pauses. That is so. Disgusting. You’re immoral.”

You give him a confused look. “You’ve got a pretty screwed up moral compass.”

He’s a bit put-off by this. “I was not. Expecting that. Dirk. Tell me I’m beautiful.”

“You’re beautiful.” You don’t have to lie this time.

He grins broadly. “Tell me again!”

“Beauty radiates from your every pore with all the force of a thousand suns,” you say, hamming it up a bit. He likes that, right?

“Fuck. Dirk. Too much. Too soon. Tone it down.”

“You’re very handsome,” you correct yourself, an almost conciliatory tone in your voice.

“Thanks,” he says suddenly, grinning. His smile is no less frightening, even when (you think) it’s genuine. “You’ve been good. As a reward. I might. Let you kiss me.”

“I’m on the edge of my seat,” you say, bored out of your wits.

“Sit up,” he commands, and you do so. He leans in closer and presses his lips to yours for the shortest kiss you’ve ever had.

“That was. So arousing.” The sad part is, he genuinely looks flustered by this.

“Yeah. Great.” You are beginning to get really annoyed by this guy. “Listen, I should probably get back to work...”

“You are no fun. Dirk. Okay. I will let you go. For now. But we will do this again.”

“I can hardly wait,” you say flatly.

“Maybe if you’re lucky,” he says, “we could get to second base,—” he leans in and lowers his voice to a whisper, “— in under a year. You’d like that. Wouldn’t you? You’re so. Filthy.”

Your hands are looking a lot better by now.

He walks you back to the café and even comes inside with you, the tenacious fucker. Jane raises her eyebrows at you.

“Don’t ask,” you say, slipping back behind the counter and taking over from Jake.

He orders a triple espresso.

“See you at nine tomorrow. Dirk.”

He says your name like it’s illegal.

You don’t care that he looks like a model, and you don’t even care that after weeks of silently ogling him it turns out that yeah, he’s interested. You don’t care. You really fucking hate this guy.


	5. Destruction (Roxy<>Dirk)

It’s dark inside the long-abandoned theatre, the only light coming in from small gaps in the ceiling. Sequins litter the floor in pink and black, mingling with bloodstains and the thick dust of an era long forgotten. The floorboards creak and the stage has fallen through. There are bullet holes in the curtains.

The orange work-jackets and blue helmets look frightfully anachronistic.

The leader of the demolition crew gives the place a once over, before turning back to the man with the detonator and giving the nod.

“This place ought to have been knocked down long ago,” he says.

\---

After every show she goes to the bar in the lobby and orders a martini. Her dress is falling off her shoulders and it’s evident that she’s tired. Adoring eyes follow her as she slips out of the dressing room and into the crowd. They want her to sing again. She plays her part well, winks at the boys and makes sure they’re coming back tomorrow.

“Another night,” the bartender says, sliding across her drink. “Sick of it all yet?”

She shakes her head and grins at him. “Never gets old.”

He nods.

“Say, barkeep,” she says, leaning over the bench, “have you got a name?”

“Dirk,” he says, pouring champagne for another customer. “And you’re the famous Roxy Lalonde, aren’t you?”

She smiles at him. “Might be. Now tell me something, Dirk. How long do you think we have?”

He looks at her, confused. “How long until what?”

“Until they shut this place down. ‘Sonly a matter of time, isn’t it?”

She’s making him uncomfortable, and she knows it. He walks off to serve someone else, but it’s getting late now and the regular drunks have already exceeded their tabs for the night and are now distracted by the striptease. He has no excuse to avoid her questions.

“I don’t know about you,” she says, “but I want to fight. I want to fight the government.”

“Good for you,” he says quietly.

“I’m serious. We should take them on. You and me. They could come here any time, Dirk. Any night. They could shut us down.”

She takes a deep breath, as though what she’s about to say will be the most momentous line she’s ever uttered.

“We could die tonight.”

Dirk ignores her. She’s beyond tipsy, and she’s saying things she’ll regret in the morning.

“I’m serious.”

She reaches out across the bar and grabs his collar. “Let’s make love,” she whispers.

He gapes at her. “You’re drunk. You don’t know what you’re saying.”

“Like hell I don’t,” she says, and before he can even think of a way to disagree she’s climbing over the bar and dragging him off. “Someone else will look after this.”

Powerless to resist her surprisingly strong grip, he allows her to pull him to her dressing room. It’s evident who’s in charge here as she pins him to the chest of drawers and twists an arm behind her to unzip her dress.

He shakes his head. “I can’t do this, Roxy.”

“Why not,” she mumbles, kissing his neck, “you don’t wear a ring.”

“For good reason!” he exclaims, pushing her away. She rights herself quickly and scrutinises him.

“Okay,” she says. “Okay, but if we die tonight, I don’t want to... die alone...”

Dirk is overcome with pity for her. She’s depressed, she’s drunk herself into oblivion, and now she’s convinced that the government are coming tonight to bring the war to a head in one of the many faceless, illegal theatres. He rubs his temple and walks over to Roxy, wrapping his arms around her and pulling her close. “No-one’s going to die tonight. I can promise you that.”

“Dirk, you don’t understand. I have a friend on the insi—”

He runs a hand through her hair to silence her. “No-one is going to die.”

Time passes slowly, if at all, and they spend indeterminate moments just standing there in Roxy’s dressing room, holding each other to forget their lives.

Neither of them could say how much later it was when the shouting started. It was nothing new – bar-fights were practically a given in this part of town. Dirk reluctantly pulls away. “I should probably go out there and sort this out.”

“Don’t!” Roxy says immediately. “Dirk, don’t you dare...”

“It’s my job,” he says apologetically, brushing past her and out the door.

“DON’T YOU DARE,” she yells, following him and latching onto his sleeve. “Don’t go out there, Dirk!”

But she can’t stop him this time, and is pulled along as he runs out of the backstage area. He’s going the wrong way – he doesn’t know this part of the theatre as well as Roxy, and he’s headed for the stage.

“No, this is all wrong,” Roxy mutters to herself. She’s finally let go of his sleeve, but she’s still following him. “You’re going the wrong way!”

He doesn’t hear her and runs out onto the stage.

It’s carnage.

She runs on after him, on the stage with a view of the whole theatre. The girls from the striptease are cowering in the wings on the other side, and in the stalls a brawl has broken out between the regular theatregoers and men in the government’s military uniform. They’re hitting people with the butts of their rifles, and here and there a few shots ring out, bullets pinging off the ceiling.

Roxy takes Dirk’s hand and walks to the centre of the stage.

She grabs the microphone and starts to sing.


End file.
